The power of soup
by feralandfree
Summary: Sickfic Challenge! Lestrade is ill, but doesn't want to show it. Rated T for reference to adult themes.


Author's note: Here is my response to the Lestrade Sickfic challenge. I hope you all like it, although I hade precious little time to write it. Enjoy!

Oh and please R&R if you can.

No matter how many pennies I drop down the well, I do not own Sherlock etc etc.

* * *

Lestrade's head hurt. Wearily he tried to get up from bed and found it challenging, every movement made him feel dizzy and weak.

"Get up, you'll be late for work, Greg." His wife warned him, turning lazily under the sheets.

"I'm actually not feeling very well, dear." He muttered.

"Have you got a temperature?" She asked. Lestrade warmed at the note of concern in her voice.

"I think I might have."

"For Goodness' sake!" His wife cried, jumping out of bed. "That's all I need! Stay away! I don't want to get sick, too!" She went to her drawers and pulled out some clothes, shoving them in a bag. "I'll stay with a friend, you can call me when you're better."

Greg Lestrade was too weak and too hurt to ask who the friend was. "In sickness and in health…" he muttered more to himself than to her, but she heard him.

"Oh, don't be like that, honey bear. I'm sure you understand! You wouldn't want me getting sick, would you?" She cooed, blowing him a kiss. "Take care now, bye!" She added, closing the door behind her.

Lestrade looked about the quiet, lonely room. His own wife didn't want to be around him or care for him... He couldn't stay there, the solitude would kill him more than the illnes. Forcing himself to get up, Lestrade got ready for work. When he finally arrived, Donavan asked about his pallour, which he explained away as caused by tiredness.

The DI spent most of the day trying to conceal his weakened state. Whenever possible he would slip into his office for a quick nap to keep himself going and drown in coffee to maintain an ounce of strength.

In the afternoon he got a call. A known, dangerous drug dealer was murdered in unusual circumstances: he had been found in a dark alley wearing nothing but a motorcycle helmet and a pink tutu. Lestrade had a pretty good idea that the genius guy was going to have fun with this one. He also realized that Sherlock and John would find out he wasn't well.

Greg admired Sherlock, and although he could probably count on John's discretion, he was rather sure Holmes would say something tactless about the DI's health in front of the team. Lestrade had worked too hard and too long to have the respect of his people, and hence his authority, compromised by the consulting detective! He could not appear weak, not to them; not to anyone.

A fresh wave of nausea overtook him, and he leaned against a wall, trying to look nonchalant.

"You take over, I'm going back." He said to Donavan.

"Is everything all right, sir?" An officer asked.

"Yes of course, I simply have some business to attend to at home. My hours are done and I think Donavan should try tackling this one alone, gain some experience…"

Donavan beamed proudly, oblivious to the slight sway in the DI's stride as he went back to NSY to finish off some paperwork. A few minutes later he wearily brought his hand to his forehead. He had to go home no matter how much he dreaded it, he was not fit to handle the safety of others in this state.

Running on empty, Greg slowly made his way to the car. He groggily opened it, sat at the wheel, and looked warily into space. Finally he sighed: "I would arrest myself in a split second if I caught myself driving like this." Shaking his head, he forced his aching muscles to get him out of the car and in a taxi.

With his last ounce of strength Greg opened the door to his home and collapsed on the bed, his work clothes still on. Then he passed out.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but suddenly he could hear voices, rudely ripping apart the warm, comforting numbness of unconsciousness.

"His temperature is still quite high." A soothing, sweet voice whispered calmly. He could feel her hand delicately resting on his forehead. Such a caring, angelic touch…

"What do you want me to do?" A cool, masculine voice asked, devoid of all emotion.

"He needs more paracetamol." Another, kinder man spoke. "His heartbeat is more regular, that's good." Lestrade almost jumped, feeling a cool, metallic thing against his chest.

"Do you want me to boil some water?" The icy voice demanded.

"What?" The other man replied.

"Well, that's what people always do when others are sick, right? They boil water…"

After a moment of hesitation, the softer man's voice spoke. "Yes, good idea. Boil some water. About 500 ml please."

"Look, John. I think he's waking up." The woman cried softly. Greg opened his eyes.

Molly and John were beside him. Sherlock walked into the room.

"The water is almost boiling." The consulting detective affirmed curtly.

"Good, well done." John nodded. "Now find some mugs and teabags. I am sure a genius like you will know what to do with them."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then strode purposefully back into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Greg mumbled groggily, vaguely aware of being in pyjamas and under a warm duvet.

"We were at the crime scene to have a look at the tutu-wearing drug dealer when Donovan said you had gone home." John began to explain.

"However, I spotted your car as we passed by NSY." Sherlock said, walking in with a tray, carrying tea, biscuits and a steaming bowl of soup. "Donavan said you looked tired, you went home but didn't drive, you were not answering your phone and you allowed Donovan to take over the case. You were either sick or in real danger, obviously."

John continued "As soon as we found you, Sherlock sent a text to Molly and we got you changed and in bed."

"How did you get in?" Lestrade pondered aloud.

"A copy of the keys." The consulting detective stated matter-of-factly.

"Where did you get a copy of the keys?" Greg asked, frowning slightly.

"Let's leave that aside for now." John coaxed "You need fluids. Molly has brought a wonderful soup for you."

The pathologist smiled. "It's my mother's recipe, it always made me feel better when I was little."

"Move." Sherlock ordered ominously, a pillow clutched threateningly in his hands.

Greg moved slightly as the soft, fluffy item was placed behind him to make him more comfortable.

"Eat. Get better." Holmes commanded before moving away to sit on an armchair by the window.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Molly smiled at the consulting detective. "That was very helpful."

John grinned at Lestrade. "Well aren't you lucky: you've got two doctors and a genius here to care for you and get you back on your feet in no time…It's enough to make you never want to get sick again, huh!" he chuckled.

Greg tentatively brought a spoonful of Molly's cooking to his lips and looked up.

He saw the sweet pathologist smile and start chatting about the recipe, the cheerful doctor winking at him as he closed his black case, and the brooding genius reciprocating Greg's gaze and nodding curtly before turning away.

As the delicious, comforting soup worked its magic, Lestrade smiled.

He was already beginning to feel better.


End file.
